


The Tourney at Lannisport

by oswiin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aegon is super flirty and Jon hates it, Also I'm not saying Robb and Theon are in love but, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, I'm not saying they're not either, Jon and Arya need to find marriages, Robert Baratheon is not happy about it that's why he's not in this, Sansa is engaged to Willas, She isn't happy about it either, So you can guess how this is gonna go, Tourney AU, someone is about to repeat history
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24631168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswiin/pseuds/oswiin
Summary: When Rhaegar turned on his father at the Trident and joined the rebels, the world changed completely. When Aerys heard of this betrayal, he wanted to reduce King's Landing to ash, until Jaime Lannister put a sword in his back, ending his tyranny for good.Arya is about to turn 15, Cat insists she be engaged before long. When Tywin Lannister holds a Tourney to celebrate 20 years since King Rhaegar's coronation, the pressure is on for Arya and her cousin, Jon, to find matches from amongst the gathered nobles. But both are more concerned with not being allowed to compete in the lists than anything else.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Aegon VI Targaryen, Arya Stark & Daenerys Targaryen, Arya Stark/Aegon VI Targaryen, Edmure Tully/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia), Jaime Lannister & Arya Stark, Jaime Lannister & Jon Snow, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow/Arya Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Tyrion Lannister & Arya Stark, Tyrion Lannister & Jon Snow
Comments: 46
Kudos: 127
Collections: Jonrya Week, Jonrya Week: A Dream of Spring





	1. Chapter I

_**** _

Twenty years ago, Prince Rhaegar’s army had joined forces with the rebels on the Trident and turned on his father, and Mad Aerys’ reign had ended with a Lannister sword in his back. Ned Stark had found his sister in a tower in Dorne, dying after giving birth to a bastard boy, the son of their new king.

Lyanna was buried at Winterfell, as she wanted, and the boy was legitimised by his father. Ned begged one thing of the king, for his sister’s memory; that the boy be given a name to honour his mother, as well as one to honour his father. And, when the time came, Prince Jon Targaryen was fostered at Winterfell with his cousins, to return to the capital when he became a man.

And that time had arrived.

Arya Stark was about to turn fifteen. And Tywin Lannister was holding a Tourney.

* * *

The journey to Lannisport had seemed endless, and Arya looked for anything that might alleviate her boredom. She wanted to scour the Neck for lizard lions and all sorts of flowers - her father loved flowers - but Ned Stark opted to take a ship from the Stony Shore instead, and her plans were scuppered. She supposed a ship could be just as exciting.

As tedious as the journey was, Arya was glad she had been allowed to go. Bran and Rickon had stayed in Winterfell with their mother, and she had greatly protested Arya joining their party south. But Jon and Robb had persisted, and Ned had agreed. After that, all Catelyn could do was make sure she would look the part of a Southern lady and win herself a husband. She would be a woman soon, and Catelyn Stark thought it past time she was engaged.

Arya had hated all the dress fittings and courtesy lessons that her mother wanted to fit in before she left, and the Septa, who had thus far avoided the tangled mess Arya sported, was being taught to brush her hair. That was the most excruciating part of all. She couldn’t tell her mother this, but Jon brushed it even better than her.

Arya savoured those days on the water, away from her mother and all the expectations. She still had Speta Mordane, Jeyne Poole and her sister, of course, but the sea did not agree with Sansa, and the three of them spent most of the journey in their cabin. Arya’s favourite thing was waking up before everyone else, standing on deck and letting the wind ruffle her hair. It felt almost as good as when Jon messed it up for her.

Theon taught her how to sail. He acted the expert, though the ship’s crew found his technique somewhat lacking. It made her giggle to see him turned red when they corrected him, and Robb and Jon teased him endlessly. She liked to watch Jon and Robb spar on deck, and every now and then they would let her join in, charging at them both with wooden swords. She dreaded the journey’s end, when she would have to don her lady’s garb and act the part for all the southern lords. Ned spent his days alone, writing and planning, so he could not chastise her for her behaviour. At least at sea, she could be herself.

When they stepped ashore at Lannisport, Arya’s heart was in her throat. Ned, Jon and Robb paid their respects to the small branch of Lannisters who had come to greet them, but Arya could not escape her own thoughts. She was excited to see the South, and meet Jon’s siblings, but everything else terrified her. Her mother and father wanted to marry her off, or at least become engaged, to some lord she had never met. To her, that seemed a fate worse than death.

Arya stood there, paralysed in her blue dress, blue as a winter rose, staring in awe at the immense, looming figure of Casterly Rock in the distance. The keep was carved out of a great stone hill, shrouded in mists; it terrified her, until she felt strong, callused fingers entwine with her own. Arya looked up, startled, and met Jon’s smiling eyes, the eyes that looked just like hers. She relaxed a little and breathed deeply to steady herself. Jon leaned close to whisper in her ear.

“Breathe, cousin,” he said, with a hint of laughter in his voice, “it’s only a tourney. You won’t even be taking part. Aside from that it’s just feasting and gaming… exploring.” He nudged her slightly, making her giggle. Arya loved exploring, but even that thought could not cheer her for long.

“That’s not why I’m scared,” she said, frustrated, looking at Jon with exasperated eyes. “You know why I’m scared. They’re going to find me a husband and I’m going to make a fool of myself with all the proper ladies and… and…” She didn’t want to say what worried her the most, but Jon was waiting expectantly, and she had never been able to lie to him. “... and I’m worried your brother and sister will hate me.”

Jon’s raucous laughter was met with a swift punch on the arm.

“It’s not funny, you stupid!” But Jon couldn’t help it. To him, the idea that anyone could not like Arya was ridiculous. But then, people like Sansa did exist, so there was no accounting for taste.

“They will love you, Arya,” he said sincerely, “as I do. I promise. And, if you so detest the idea of marriage, simply say the word and my father will make sure you never have to.” She looked up at him and frowned.

“It’s not marriage I hate,” she said tentatively, chewing on her lip as she thought of what to say, “it’s marrying someone I don’t know. Or worse, someone I hate. What if I ended up marrying a Frey?” She made a disgusted face and Jon giggled.

“Come on,” he said encouragingly, “there’s still a long way to Casterly Rock. You can spend the night here biting your lip and worrying, and when we arrive you’ll see there was nothing to be afraid of.” She knew he was right, of course, but she would never admit it. Jon might be a prince, but he was still her cousin, and she would never treat him any differently.

Arya spent the night tossing and turning, only to discover that the next day seemed much brighter than the last. Their journey to Casterly Rock took most of the day, mostly because they kept stopping the carriages to get out and explore. Theon and Robb ran through the forests brandishing stick-swords, Arya and Jon looked for bugs and birds and were fascinated by all the vibrant smells and sights in the markets, and Ned allowed them their indulgence.

Arya had never been anywhere south of White Harbour before, and she would not let this opportunity go to waste. Only Sansa, Jeyne and the Septa stayed in the carriage, claiming it was vulgar to act in such a way, especially in front of a prince. But they didn’t care. Jon simply planted a mocking kiss on the Septa’s cheek and they set off again.

“So, do we have to start bowing to you and calling you ‘Your Grace’?” Robb asked mockingly, as he swung at Theon with a twig. Jon and Arya had perched themselves on a log and were eating berries she had picked, laughing at their antics.

“Of course not,” Jon said. “Though, it wouldn’t hurt to perhaps call me ‘Aemon’ once in a while.” That made Theon burst out laughing. He abandoned his game with Robb to face the prince and deliver a mocking bow. He did not think much of the Targaryen names, unless it was Aegon or perhaps Daemon. For him, Aemon sounded too scholarly.

“As you wish, _Prince_ Aemon,” he said. Robb took his moment of distraction as an opportunity, and knocked Greyjoy’s feet from under him with his stick, and they all laughed at his expense. Arya joined in as she attempted to braid a crown from the white and yellow flowers she had picked, and couldn’t help but think she would like it if her life could be just like this. She watched Jon laugh, his sides splitting and his grey eyes clamped shut, and knew that if her future husband was anything like him, she would be very happy.

* * *

They arrived at Casterly Rock just before dusk, and it was even more awe-inspiring up close. The rock cast a shadow over all, and Arya felt the bile rise in her throat as she contemplated what this visit meant. She became excited again once Theon whispered in her ear about the lions kept there, and promised they would go looking.

Arya was shocked to see King Rhaegar and Queen Elia had come in person to greet them, with most of their family in tow. They had come early, it seemed, to greet Jon after years of fostering in Winterfell. Daenerys, Aegon, Rhaenys and Viserys were there, the latter with his wife and golden-haired children. All of them were beautiful, and Arya finally understood the talk of Targaryen, otherworldly beauty. Their silver hair and lilac eyes were enchanting, made more so by their crowns of silver and ruby.

The Starks and Theon bowed to the royals, though Ned was stiff as a board. He was yet to forgive Rhaegar Targaryen; he never spoke about his sister, but it was clear Lyanna was always on his mind. Arya looked around, but she found no sign of the Kingslayer or his brother, the Imp, which was disappointing. The only white cloak there was Arthur Dayne, which she supposed was just as good. Sansa blushed before Prince Aegon, who’s winning smile sent her and Jeyne into a fit of giggles.

Tywin and her father were not on good terms, and it showed when they greeted each other. Not a smile passed between them as he welcomed them to Casterly Rock, and Arya could feel the coldness settle around her, which was not helped by the withering glare of his daughter standing next to him. Cersei Lannister was a hard woman, known equally for her beauty and her temper, which had only grown more ferocious over the years of her marriage to Prince Viserys. The prince was just a boy when they wed, and Arya had often heard the women of Winterfell gossiping about how disappointed she was not to have married the king.

All that fear disappeared when Arya laid eyes on the princess’ smile. Rhaenys was a beauty, and her smile only made her more so. She was the very image of her mother, except for the streak of silver in her hair, and Arya thought she looked like a goddess. She recognised the restrained look on her face, as though she was just itching to run wild, but had to get through her courtesies first. Arya was no stranger to that look herself.

Her uncle Edmure, the princess’ husband, stood at her side, his flaming red hair making him look more like Robb and Sansa’s father than Ned. Elia stepped forward to embrace Jon warmly, and though Arya could not hear what she said, watching them made her smile. It seemed the rumours of Elia being sickly were greatly exaggerated. 

As soon as they turned to enter the keep, Jon and Rhaenys rushed towards each other and embraced warmly, before he turned and Prince Aegon forced him into an affectionate headlock. Robb and Theon chuckled; Sansa, clearly disappointed the princess did not greet her, turned up her nose as she and Jeyne walked past, and Arya stood there watching them, anxious to see if they would like her as much.

After they had reunited with their brother and everyone else had already left, Rhaenys and Aegon turned to Arya. She bit her lip, waiting for their approval, or their disdain. She did not expect to feel something furry brush against her leg, nearly making her jump out of her skin.

“That’s Balerion,” the princess said, as her siblings giggled. Arya looked down and understood the name. The cat had shaggy, black fur and a mean look, but Arya picked him up and nuzzled him all the same. “You must be Arya. Aemon has told us all about you in his letters. You’re practically all he talks about.”

Arya blushed at Rhaenys’ words. She looked up and saw Jon was blushing too, opening him up to teasing from his brother, no doubt. Rhaenys approached her and Arya attempted an awkward bow. The princess was twenty-four, a woman, and Arya had never been much of a lady. She barely had any female friends in Winterfell, so she didn’t know what to do. 

Luckily, Rhaenys seemed to. In a moment, she had wrapped Arya in a warm hug and she was stunned. She didn’t think anyone, let alone a princess, could like her, especially if Jon had been telling the truth about her behaviour in his letters. When they parted, Rhaenys was still beaming at her, and Arya suddenly felt… warm.

“My brother and I have been very excited to meet you,” the princess continued, and Arya looked past her to take a glance at her brother. Prince Aegon was a year older than Jon, with darker skin and much fairer hair. He looked like a Targaryen, where his brother was a Stark and his sister a Martell. She found his dark purple eyes almost entrancing as he stared at her with a curious expression, the hint of a smile on his lips. Jon watched them both with a frown.

“Come,” Rhaenys continued, taking Arya’s arm to lead her into the keep, “you must tell us all about what Aemon has been up to in the North.”

“I’m afraid he mostly got into trouble.” Arya had said it without thinking, making her feel foolish, and not for the first time. But Rhaenys and Aegon just laughed, putting her at ease once again.

“Perfect,” Aegon said, “we would expect nothing less.”


	2. Chapter II

When everyone had retired, Rhaegar pulled his sons aside and sat them down with cups of wine. The look on his face told them both this was a serious matter.

“You boys must marry,” the king said bluntly, making Aegon spit out his wine. Jon was less surprised, but the thought was not any more appealing for that. “There is always war on the horizon, and we must bring the great houses close to our bosom. Martell and Lannister are with us, but that will not be enough. I made few friends during the rebellion, and Lord Robert will never stand with us, no matter what. Which makes it even more important that we make alliances.”

Jon and Aegon knew he was right. They often found their father cursing his decision to let Rhaenys marry Edmure out of affection, rather than forcing a more advantageous match with a Baratheon or a Tyrell. And now the weight of their father’s expectations rested on them. Aegon and Jon shared uneasy glances. Neither one of them relished the prospect, however inevitable.

Their father was not done, unfortunately. “I had hoped to marry you, Aegon, to your aunt Daenerys. If that is to happen, Aemon must marry well. That is why you are here.” Jon’s head snapped sideways to stare at his father, a question on his lips that he dared not voice.  _ Was that the only reason? _ “A Tyrell, a Hightower, perhaps even a Baratheon… I will allow you this liberty of choosing a bride, my son,” Rhaegar said, taking Jon’s face in his hands, “but if you choose wrong, then I will take that from you. Use this tourney to charm yourself into marriage. Help your family. Make me proud.”

Jon swallowed thickly, the weight of a nation’s expectations suddenly on his shoulders. If he chose poorly, his brother would have to marry well, breaking the Targaryen tradition of marrying someone of the blood. How would history look on him if he caused that? And yet, there was not a person attending the tourney that he might be tempted to marry.

“Perhaps I should marry the Stark girl,” Aegon said, with his signature confident wit, “and take the weight off poor little Aemon’s shoulders.” He grinned at Jon, who found it much less amusing than his half-brother. It was all in jest, they both knew, but it was the mention of marrying a Stark that Jon found he could not laugh at.

“It would not be hard to call off her engagement to Willas Tyrell,” Rhaegar mused, though he did not seem convinced.

“Not her,” Aegon corrected, “the younger girl. Arya. She has a wildness about her, and she looks so much like Aemon that we might as well be family already.” Jon’s glare would have terrified any man, but only the stones beneath his shoes bore witness to it. He kept his gaze firmly downwards, or he might have strangled his half-brother there and then, even if he was jesting.

“That’s enough, Aegon,” the king said firmly, “you will have time to make your choice. Every high-born girl in the seven kingdoms will be here soon. Meet them, charm them, make your choice, and I’ll hear no more about it until it is done. I am giving you both so much freedom in this matter. Do not make me regret it.” Rhaegar stood, and the princes followed suit. 

Before he left, the king turned back to make one last remark. “And Aemon,” he called, “you are not to compete in the tourney. The crown is well-represented by your brother.” Jon might have objected, if Rhaegar had not silenced him with a single, cold look. “You are a fine warrior, which I dare say is far more useful, but you are not good with a lance. Enjoy the tourney, my son, and welcome home.”

He left then, and Jon was left feeling disappointed and angry, emotions he was no stranger to. The way his father treated him was the reason he cherished his years in Winterfell. Now that was over, and Jon could not help but feel afraid.

* * *

Sansa and Jeyne were having tea with the princesses, doing their best to impress such important women, but Arya was not with them. She had long since disappeared into the crowd with her brother and Theon, fascinated by the people and the smells, darting from one market stall to another to sample everything they had on offer. Robb and Theon seemed happy enough to indulge her, as long as she consented doing whatever they wanted once the competition started. They desperately wanted to see Thoros of Myr with his flaming sword. It was an easy decision; Arya was going to watch it anyway.

She wished Jon were with them, but he was a prince, so had duties and courtesies to attend to, and he was flanked by a member of the Kingsguard at all times. Arya didn’t like not seeing him, but she understood why. Anyway, after the sun went down she could see him as much as she liked.

It was amongst those crowds that Arya finally caught sight of the Imp. She had heard so many tales, of a monster with half a face, wings and a tail, of a daemon like no other. Needless to say she was disappointed with the truth. Tyrion Lannister looked like any other man, though shorter and more finely dressed, with golden Lannister hair and a white smile. He walked past them all without a glance, and Arya chastised herself for staring so rudely.

Those first days of the tourney were an assault of colours and smells, sights and sounds, and Arya Stark reveled in it all. The mummer’s shows made her want to join them and see the Free Cities, dancing and acting her way across Essos. Jon could join her. Such a thing would surely be worthy of a song or two.

That night, there was a feast to open the tourney. The septa forced Arya into a gown that was more uncomfortable than anything she had ever worn before, as she went on forever about making good impressions on the young men there, as one of them would be her husband. Sansa and Jeyne chatted airily about Prince Aegon and Loras Tyrell, and any other knight they could think of. Arya noted that Sansa’s betrothed, Willas, was quite far from her thoughts.

The great hall of Casterly Rock was fit to burst as it seemed half the known world was in attendance. The walls were decorated with furs and banners, the lion of Lannister and Targaryen dragon both, and long benches stretched the length of the hall. Singers and players in the corner played a pretty melody over the idle chatter. Arya entered on her father’s arm, and her eyes immediately went to Jon at the high table. He looked happy, speaking to his half-sister and his aunt, and Arya felt sad that she couldn’t join him, but she reasoned that it was only for one night and contented herself with her place on the benches.

Almost as soon as they sat down, however, a servant approached and whispered in her father’s ear. His face set into a grim line as he looked between his daughters and the high table, then nodded reluctantly and the servant disappeared back into the shadows. All of a sudden, Ned stood, tugging his daughters gently on the elbow so they followed him as he cautiously approached the dais at the end of the hall.

“Father,” Sansa asked quietly, “what’s going on?” Ned said nothing, and when at last they reached the dias, just a step below the high table and Rhaegar’s throne, they were accosted by a round-faced, silver-haired girl, dressed in a shimmering lilac gown that matched her eyes.

“Your highness,” Ned said politely, “may I present my daughters, Lady Sansa and Lady Arya Stark.” Sansa curtsied gracefully, and Arya managed through it as best she could, but Daenerys simply beamed at them both and didn’t seem to mind.

“Thank you, my lord Stark,” the princess said, with a voice as melodious as a song. “I hope you don’t mind if I steal your daughters from you for a moment, but I dearly wish to know my nephew’s family better. I would have invited your son too, but I fear that would not be appropriate.”

“Quite,” Ned agreed, finally releasing his hold on his daughters’ arms. “Thank you for this honour. Though I must say I only allow them to have two cups of wine each at feasts. I’m sure your highness can understand.” Daenerys nodded fervently as Sansa rolled her eyes and flushed with embarrassment. Ned left them with the princess, who led them to take seats at her side.

“I have been so excited to meet you both,” Daenerys gushed, her brilliant smile never leaving her face. Arya wondered if it hurt to be so joyful all the time. “My nephew has told me so much about you, lady Arya. I expected to be disappointed, in truth, for I thought no-one could be as beautiful as he described you, or as willful.” Arya’s face fell, though it was nothing she had not grown used to. Her sister and all her friends still called her ‘Arya Horseface’, and she expected no less from the southerners. “But you are exactly as he described.”

Arya’s heart lifted as Sansa’s face fell, but she did not think of her sister then. She had never cared if she was pretty, and only Jon and her father had ever said she was, but somehow, hearing it from Daenerys made her happier than anything. Hearing it from Daenerys made her believe it, if only a little.

“And you, your highness,” Arya responded, though she quickly realised she had no idea what she wanted to say, “are far  _ more _ than I imagined. In every way.” Daenerys beamed at her, so brightly Arya could almost feel the warmth of it spreading through her.

“I can sense you and I will be great friends, my lady,” Daenerys said, and Arya returned the smile. The princess then turned to her sister. “And you, lady Sansa. I must say I envy you your engagement. I know lord Willas. He is so kind, so handsome, so funny, if you can believe it. Are you excited for your marriage? Have you spoken to him since you arrived?”

“No, I, uh…” Sansa stammered, but before she could answer, the three royal siblings approached. Rhaenys sat beside Daenerys, Jon sat at the end of their table, grinning sheepishly at Arya, as Aegon ostentatiously vaulted over the table to face them all. Arya watched her sister blush at him and couldn’t help but feel embarrassed on her behalf.

“We’re not interrupting anything important, I trust?” Aegon asked, though he clearly expected no response. He smirked at Arya, who simply raised her eyebrows, daring him to try again. That only seemed to make the prince laugh. She looked around her to hide her ire, and her gaze stopped on a glint of gold armour standing vigil in the corner, her cousin’s omnipresent shadow.

Jaime Lannister had become the subject of whispers and rumours since killing the Mad King, and Arya was fascinated by them all. Seeing him up close, she wondered what all the fuss was about. He looked like any other man, though she supposed he was more beautiful, with his golden hair and green eyes. He stood so still and stoic that he might have been mistaken for a statue, if not for his ever-shifting gaze. Arya stared at him for a while, until Daenerys tapped her gently on the shoulder, breaking the trance.

She smiled as she handed Arya a cup of wine and, not wanting to be rude, she accepted, though it always made her head swim. She struggled to keep up with the current conversation but from what she could gather, they were back on the subject of marriage.

“And you, brother,” Princess Rhaenys asked, “who’s favour will you wear in the lists?” Aegon smirked at that and looked away, and Sansa brushed her auburn locks behind her ear shyly. Only Arya and Jon seemed to notice, as they shared a silent chuckle between them. “I know Lady Margaery is unattached, and you know her well. She’s beautiful, and young, and intelligent. Is she not perfect?” Arya could sense Rhaenys was teasing her brother, just as she often did with hers, but Aegon was less impressionable than Bran, and did not bite.

He smiled cooly at his sister as he spoke. “All of that is true, dear sis, but lady Margaery’s is not the favour I seek.” His voice was low and stirred intrigue among the group, as they all waited for him to reveal his affections. Arya was not paying attention, as she concentrated on a war of feet brewing between her and Jon beneath the table, a war she was determined to win. Their feet danced and kicked each other, and the pair giggled, delighting in sharing a joke right beneath everyone’s noses.

“In fact, I had hoped to ask for yours,” Aegon continued, pausing a little for the dramatics, “Lady Arya.” At the mention of her name, Arya and Jon’s heads snapped up and their feet went limp. Arya’s grey eyes were wide and confused; the entire table had stilled with the shock of Aegon’s words, though only Sansa and Jon seemed angered by it. “My lady?” Aegon prompted, as Arya stared at him dumbfounded.

Now that she looked, she realised Aegon was handsome, in a different way than his brother. He had the long, silver-gold hair of the Targaryens that fell about his shoulders in waves, though his eyes were darker than the others, closer to indigo than violet. He was grinning sweetly at her, and Arya quickly closed her mouth as she figured out how to respond.

“I, um,” Arya began, quickly realising she had no idea what to say as they all stared at her expectantly, “I’m afraid I have no favour to give you.” Arya prayed she had been diplomatic and polite enough, and hoped it would put an end to it, though a small, wicked part of her wanted to see Sansa’s face as a prince rode for  _ her _ honour in a tourney. That might have made this whole trip worth something.

“I do,” Sansa said, smiling prettily at the prince. She did everything prettily, Arya thought resentfully, but this time it seemed that was not in her favour. The room was lively with music and dancing, but their little corner was awkwardly quiet. “You could wear my favour in the tourney.”

"Should that honour not go to your betrothed?" Rhaenys asked, concern in her sweet voice. 

"Lord Willas cannot compete in the tourney," Sansa explained matter-of-factly. 

"So, because your betrothed cannot ride, you are free to lend your affection to any man who can?" Prince Aegon's question pushed Sansa into a stunned silence. He turned his attentions back to Arya, ignoring the murderous look in his brother's dark eyes. "My lady, if I found you a favour of some sort, could I ride for you then?" Arya bit her lip, thinking. She hated all this talk of 'honouring' her when she should be allowed to compete for herself, but the prince required an answer, and she saw no way out of it.

"I suppose," she said, relenting at last, "but you should know that I do not appreciate this gesture. Not when I would do a much better job riding for my own honour." They all laughed at that, though, for the first time, Arya did not think they were laughing at her, and soon she had joined in.

Jon was not laughing however. He gritted his teeth to quell his anger at Aegon's remarks, though it did little to help. Arya's popularity with his family, an outcome Jon entirely expected, meant he would have to find his own ways to make her smile, and smile brighter than his brother's efforts. Luckily, he had always been good at that. 


	3. Chapter III

When the tourney finally began, Arya was dazzled by it all. Knights rode at each other with lances at lightning speeds, mummers and singers nearly made her cry with their stories, and she pummelled Robb and Theon when they dared mock her for it, but it was the melee that had them fascinated.

Watching Thoros of Myr and his burning sword was awe-inspiring, even if it was just a mummer’s trick that shriveled after every tilt. They watched among the crowds of smallfolk, Jon included, occasionally shielding their eyes when the flames got too close. After a gruelling, three-hour fight, Thoros won the melee, and immediately began celebrating with a knight with a lightning bolt on his shield.

Arya was more interested in the boy he handed his useless sword off to. He almost looked like a Targaryen, and Arya wondered if he was one of Prince Viserys’ children. But all of the prince’s children had darker blonde hair, and this boy wore purple with a shooting star on his doublet. Sansa was better with sigils, but even Arya knew that was the symbol of House Dayne of Starfall.

The boy caught her eye and approached. “My lady,” he said with a soft voice, bowing courteously, “I am Edric Dayne of Starfall. You must be Arya Stark.” Arya nodded and curtsied. Ned nodded to her brother and Theon, but he beamed at Jon, who embraced him affectionately. Arya watched them curiously.

“Ned and I are milk brothers,” Jon explained. Arya grinned; she liked the look of Ned, who could only be a few years older than her, and if Jon liked him then so did she. “You’re still squiring for Lord Beric I see.” Ned nodded.

“Yes, and his red priest,” Ned said. “I must take his sword to the blacksmith again, and procure him a new one. It is rare that we escape a tourney with less than six replacements for Lord Thoros. His trick with wildfire ruins the metal, and Tobho Mott is the only one skilled enough or willing to help us so often. It is a blessing that he accompanied the party from King’s Landing. I was going to visit him now if you like to join, your highness. My lady.”

Arya bit her lip and grinned at Jon, silently begging him to let her go. She was fascinated with all weapons, and how they were made, so she was eager to jump at this chance. As always, Jon relented to her wishes.

“We would be glad to, Ned,” Jon answered, and the boy blushed under Arya’s silver gaze. “Robb, would you join us?”

“I thought I would help Theon train for the archery competition,” Robb said, as Theon lounged behind him, smirking, “but, by all means go ahead. Have fun,  _ your highness. _ ” Jon rolled his eyes at his cousin’s mocking tone and turned away from them, draping his arm across Arya’s shoulders as they followed Ned Dayne across the field.

When at last they reached the forge Mott had taken up temporary residence in, the aged smith was nowhere to be seen. The only person there was a young man, muscular with black hair and blue eyes, working away at an axe with a hammer.

“Gendry!” Ned called out, making the boy look up and approach them, wiping his hands down on his apron, though he did not seem to care about his soot-covered face. “Thoros needs a new sword, I’m afraid.” Gendry took the useless steel from Ned’s hands sullenly, quickly glancing up and catching Arya’s gaze before turning away. For some reason he couldn’t quite place, Jon disliked the boy immensely.

Tobho appeared from the back of the smithy and started haggling with Ned over swords, and Arya took this chance to study the craft. She stared at Gendry as he worked away at the steel, fascinated by the way it glowed and sizzled when it went in the water. Unfortunately, the sound of her own name drew her attention, and she found herself face-to-face with Prince Aegon once again.

“My lady,” he said breathlessly, “I’ve been looking for you.” Aegon looked her up and down, grimacing at their surroundings, and Arya suddenly felt Jon press close to her side. She knew his expression without seeing it. He glared at his brother, a storm brewing behind those grey eyes, and Arya found she enjoyed knowing how angry this made him. “First she says she would ride in a tourney, then I find she spends her days at a smithy.”

“First he speaks as if she is not there,” Arya responded snarkily, “then he gets his arse kicked.” Aegon laughed at that and bowed his head, letting his silver locks hide his flushed face.

“I wondered if you would accept this gift as a token of my esteem.” Aegon handed her an icy blue kerchief, embroidered with silver thread in the shape of a dragon. Arya thought it was absolutely beautiful.

“Thank you, your highness,” was all she could say, though Jon was less than pleased. Mostly, he was angry because he wanted to give her such a beautiful gift, but Aegon’s laughing eyes did nothing to quell the storm inside him.

“I do hope you will allow me to wear it in the lists for you,” Aegon said, kissing her hand and causing Arya to turn red. She coughed to cover her nervousness, and snatched her hand back forcefully.

“Of course,” she said confidently, “though I do hope you win. I would never want my name to be associated with a failure.” That made Jon laugh raucously, though Aegon did not seem too offended. In fact, her words made him smile.

“Never, lady Arya,” he said, “that would truly be crime.” Everyone said Aegon had a winning smile, and Arya understood what they meant. With just one look, she almost understood her sister’s odd fascination with him, and she liked that he seemed to like everything about her that made her unladylike. It didn’t hurt that every time she spoke with the prince, Jon came up with any excuse to be at her side and hold her hand.

Jon stared daggers at his half-brother as he sauntered away, and he especially hated how much Arya seemed to like him. He had to think of a way to make her smile, but only for him. His brother had everything, but Jon only had Arya, and that meant he knew her better than anyone. He always would.

* * *

The sky was still black when Arya stirred from her bed, finding Jon staring back at her and grinning. She smiled groggily at the sight of him. 

“Jon, what is going on?” she drawled, her voice still heavy from sleep.

“Get dressed, little wolf,” he said in response, a glint of excitement in his voice. “I have a surprise for you.” The promise of a surprise made her bolt upright, her eyes wide and both open and smiling. Jon left the room, allowing Arya to get changed. She pulled on a grey, long-sleeved shift and white cotton dress, with boots she felt she could run in. Once her fur-trimmed cloak was firmly clasped around her shoulders, she set off at a run.

Jon led her all the way from their rooms in the keep down to the deserted, deathly silent training grounds. It was a ghost town, with empty stands and abandoned weapons, and just perfect for Jon’s purpose. He picked up two bastard swords from the rack and faced Arya, with a grin to match her own.

“What do the Braavosi call it, little wolf?” he asked, handing her the pommel which she grasped tightly in her small hands.

“Dancing,” Arya said airily as she divested herself of her cloak. “I wish I could have brought Needle with me.” The thought made her feel sad. Jon had gifted it to her for her tenth birthday, much to her father’s disappointment, and he had forbidden her from bringing it south.

“We’ve trained with longswords before,” he reminded her, getting into the proper stance to begin their ‘dance’. “This is no different than Winterfell, Arya. It’s just you and me, like it’s always been.” His words lightened her mood, and she raised her sword. Arya Stark was stronger than she appeared, and by now a bastard sword was no challenge for her. “May I have this dance, Lady Stark?”

“You may,  _ your highness. _ ” And their fight began. Jon’s style of fighting was both aggressive and balletic at once; he liked to both attack and deflect, always catching his opponent off-guard. Arya was more defensive, dodging and side-stepping elegantly until she found an opening, an advantage she could push until victory.

They liked to call it dancing. The footwork, the spinning, the melody of steel on steel… And it belonged to them alone. No-one else could share in this, which is why they both adored it so much. The cold night air did not affect them as they spun and twirled across the grass, springing back and forth away from and into each other’s arms.

Eventually, Jon managed to grasp Arya’s swordhand with his own, rendering her defeated, though she struggled to feel too bad about it. Jon smiled and relaxed, allowing Arya to free herself and press the advantage. Their elegant match began again, with renewed intensity and excitement, and soon they were both breathless, their cheeks ruddy.

The sound of their swords rang out across the emptiness, though Jon was certain those in the taverns of Lannisport would not care if they could hear. He and Arya were completely, blissfully alone.

Their fight took them all across the tourney grounds, until they reached the treeline that surrounded the fields. As Jon pushed Arya back, she got distracted trying to keep herself from tripping, allowing him to disarm her as her back hit the tree. Jon held his sword at her throat for a moment, standing much too close as they both caught their breath.

“It seems I still have a lot to learn,” Arya said breathlessly, breaking their trance-like silence. Jon smiled at her and lowered his blade, though he refused to widen the gap between them. Looking at her now, with the pale moonlight illuminating her disordered hair, the rise and fall of her chest, and her eyes which seemed to contain stars within them, Jon was filled with an overwhelming desire to claim her lips with his.

He leaned in to do just that, and Arya’s gaze darted to his lips, seemingly in anticipation. The sound of slow, sarcastic clapping made them jump apart, and as soon as Jon caught sight of a head of golden hair, he knew they were done for. They had been caught by none other than the Imp and the Kingslayer, one of whom acted as Jon’s personal Kingsguard.

Tyrion was smirking at them as he took a swig from the bottle in his hand, Jaime’s eyebrow was raised, like a father admonishing his children, and Arya was a flushed, beautiful mess. Jon quickly realised he would have a lot of explaining to do.


End file.
